


Awkward Family Stories

by Ihsan997



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Forgotten Realms
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Background Relationships, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 07:31:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14806997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihsan997/pseuds/Ihsan997
Summary: Prulie strikes up a conversation with her trade caravan’s oddly green-skinned guard about his family. The discussion swiftly turns into talk about eating housecats and old people sex. Not the most valuable chat of her life, but certainly an interesting one.





	1. Like Pulling Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> A trade caravan’s cook strikes up a conversation with the group’s reclusive protector. She wonders where he’s from, but gets a slightly more interesting answer.

The crisp night was young on Evermoor Way, and Prulie found herself unable to sleep even as the other members of the caravan were returning to their tents. The halfling probably shouldn’t have taken that afternoon nap inside the alchemist’s wagon, as it was most assuredly the reason she couldn’t go to bed like the others. How could she have known the commercial road would have been so smooth and bump-free? She’d only intended to rest her eyes for a few moments.

Only two others remained awake with her in the center of the wagon circle, the modest caravan’s designated night watchers. Theril, a reserved moon elf, beckoned her to the campfire as he finished cleaning up a few stray mess kits filled with her cooking.

“You did wonders considering how few ingredients we have,” he told her politely while offering her a blanket.

“Thanks, I was hoping dinner would turn out well. We’ll be working with limited supplies for the next week or so.”

Theril nodded. “Well, once we reach Yartar, we can restock...though I have a feeling we might see personnel changes once we reach town.”

As if on cue, the caravan’s most unpleasant member turned away from the pile of leaves he’d been laying for the group’s horse and mules and granted the pair the misfortune of his company. An uncouth middle-aged Telthyrian cartwright with a long-in-the-back, bald-on-the-top haircut, he took long strides to announce his presence as he sat down at the fire.

“Too many jackasses this time if you ask me,” he grumbled without realizing the irony of his statement. “And I don’t mean the donkeys.”

“They’re mules,” Prulie said politely.

“Whatever! They’re better than some of these guys, like what’s his face with the stupid card tricks.”

“You mean our healer, who mended your sprained ankle,” Prulie asked pointedly, though her disapproval was lost on the thick-headed Telthyrian.

“Yeah, that’s the jerk. Or that nitwit from Everlund who won’t stop whistling all the time.”

“That’s our driver. The one who trains, cares for, and properly manages all of our mounts, without which we’d be stranded,” the moon elf said, though there was a tone in defeat in his voice as if he already knew his interlocutor wouldn’t get the point.

The uncouth cartwright waved his hands in the air. “I guess, yeah, that’s him. What losers, right?” Despite her agreeable nature so typical of her people, Prulie was about to give the human a stern shaming when he continued to disrespect their companions. “And don’t even get me started on that mongrel we picked up in Calling Horns!”

All three of them jumped when a deep yet soft-spoken voice revealed the unseen observer. “Yes, let’s not get started,” the voice spoke to them through the gap in between the wagons of the group’s furrier and book salespeople.

Without skipping a beat, the Telthyrian stood up and made to join the mass of tents and bedrolls at the other side of the wagon circle. “You two coming?” he asked, giving regard neither to the voice outside the wagon nor the illogical nature of his question.

“No, we’re good staying up for the night watch like we’re supposed to,” Theril replied, and Prulie stifled a laugh despite being startled by the man from Calling Horns.

The cartwright waved both hands at them dismissively and entered a tent which wasn’t his, stealthily laying down without waking the owner. Prulie waited to make sure he wouldn’t return before looking back between the wagons. The observer had walked a bit further away and busied himself with what sounded like digging. Prulie smelled blood, and though she understood what the man had been hired for, she still scooted closer to Theril.

The moon elf noticed her unease. “Is there anything we should be worried about?” he asked the caravan’s protector.

The man continued scraping on the ground. “Not anymore. If there was, I’d tell you.” The sound of a wooden stake being driven into the dirt reached their ears, and the man paused for a few seconds. “Three interlopers from the Elk tribe. That number, this close to the trade route, at this time of night, means it’s just them. There aren’t any more, not like a scouting party or anything.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” the halfling asked. She wasn’t nervous, but she did want to know.

The man grunted in reply. “Yes. I have some of those Uthgardt type bastards in my family. I know how they work.”

The halfling and the elf exchanged perplexed looks. “So...you’re part Uthgardt, then?” Prulie asked.

For a few seconds, the sound of wooden poles being bored into the soil stopped. Their protector seemed as perplexed as they were, and Prulie realized that her question had caught him off guard. “Yes,” he replied tersely, though not rudely, as he returned to...whatever he was doing with sticks in the dirt.

Theril furrowed his brow and stared at the ground as if recalling information. “But...isn’t your family name Chondothan?” the elf asked.

There was another pause as the man hesitated. “Yes,” he answered, “that too.”

Prulie counted on her fingers. “So wait...you had one Chondothan grandparent and one Uthgardt grandparent?”

“What?” the man asked back, now audibly more confused than they were. “No, Hew was my great grandfather...” The man left his work entirely to peer into the wagon circle again. The green, heavy brow ridge over his cavernous eyes furrowed suspiciously. “Why are you asking this?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just curious.”

The black caverns that were his eyes continued to peer in to the wagon circle at her. She sensed no aggression, but his defensiveness almost made her regret asking. “Curiosity must still have a reason,” he said, again in a rather direct and suspicious manner.

Truly, Prulie didn’t know how to answer. Lucky for her, Theril was quick to do so. “Most of us make a habit of sharing our stories around the campfire, seeing as how we have to rely on each other so much. I don’t think it’s strange to ask about my partner during the nightwatch.”

“You didn’t talk like this before.”

“We haven’t been away from the others before,” Theril replied, “and I’d assumed you wouldn’t have responded since you always keep yourself outside the wagons at night.”

When the green man seemed quelled by the reply, the elf continued. “So how exactly...if you don’t mind, of course. How do parents such as yours...well...raise children?”

“By having sex with each other,” the wagon train’s protector answered, neither lewdness nor discomfort apparent in his voice.

Once she’d finished biting her own hand to avoid laughing, Prulie tried to guide the man toward a normal conversation. “But how did they meet before that?” she asked.

Three green knuckles stained in Uthgardt blood reached up to scratch his head. Prulie could sense the defensiveness melt away, and she felt it quaint to see such a character at a loss for words. “Nobody ever asked me that...you...mean how my parents first knew each other?” he asked rhetorically. “I never explained. Only my siblings talk about it, and they know.”

“Right, so there’s more than one of you, then. How did that happen?” Prulie asked, trying to help him through his confusion.

Sighing and shifting his weight, the man appeared to ponder her question more deeply than the halfling had expected. She wasn’t worried that he’d reveal some sordid tale about procreation from violence, but his demeanor did imply that he still wasn’t entirely comfortable.

After a few moments, he seemed to find the words. “Alright. This is a story that involves bank robbery and elk penis. Just a disclaimer.”


	2. Paternal grandparents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A match made in hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Dungeons and Dragons.

Fog hung low over the swamp, obscuring even the phosphorescent insects which infested the twisted trunks and fallen logs. Starlight occasionally shined down through the willow branches and onto the muck-covered soil, but the sky was overcast, and even the moon disappeared from sight on occasion.

Amid the thick patches of reeds and overgrown swathes of swamp grass, a single twisted figure stood out among the gnarled remains of dying trees. Bobbing up and down in the lumpy, uneven terrain, the figurative tree of woe passed through the rows of jagged branches on an aimless, meandering path. Rubber squeaked in a mocking unison with the arrhythmic croaking of bullfrogs, signaling the worn boots sticking in the muck.

After prying himself out of a particularly deep pit of mud with a poor-quality staff, the gnarled figure stumbled into a clearing among the willows. Pulling his patchwork hood down and revealing a head of shaggy, lightly greying hair, he surveyed the similarly greying atmosphere of the wasteland he’d wandered into. Stagnant water rimming the clearing forced his gaze to one side - he could no longer tell which direction - and toward a rocky formation among the trees. Hoping for shelter after many days of roaming, he stumbled toward what appeared to be a small, watery cave emerging from the swamp.

Corpses of animals dead from starvation littered the area, as did the bones of creatures dismembered by means he couldn’t fathom. The stench of fresh death overpowered the usual pungency of stagnation, and he walked more slowly as he warily looked around at the smoldering logs and tinder.

Closer to the cave, the bones were covered in more rotten flesh and littered with tattered clothing and personal items. Among the scraps scattered about were what appeared to be damaged weapons, and the positions of the mutilated bodies implied that a fight had broken out. Not all of the bodies were human, and the varying sizes and dimensions were a mystery. Only when he’d wandered quite close to the cave mouth did he notice the gaunt face gazing out at him wasn’t one of a cadaver.

So terrified that he lost his voice, he stumbled onto the flat, stone ground and lost his bearings. His surroundings were still suspended and unmoving, but the realization that a pair of hazy eyes had been watching him made his head spin. Despite his staff having fallen within reach, he didn’t retake it, and instead watched the long face right back. The pair stared at each other for a while, neither of them budging, until the hooting of an owl startled him enough for him to gasp.

In reaction to his sign of life, the lean figure crawled out of the damp swamp cave. Covered in patchwork rags similar to his own, the giant creature remained low to the ground on bent limbs while approaching. When he didn’t attempt to flee, it paused as if suspicious of his behavior. Out in the open, the creature’s features were recognizably female despite her inhuman appearance. Bone trinkets and rusted bangles jangled, and the vagabond realized that he’d stumbled into the lair of a being quite different from himself.

Two large eyes continued to peer at him curiously, almost apprehensively. The longer he stood (or sat) his ground, the more hesitant she seemed to be, and a combination of wistfulness and resignation forced him to speak.

“Fate put me here, didn’t it?” he asked the monster in the Common tongue.

When she crooked her head back, he knew that she’d understood him. Even if she wasn’t humanoid, the way her weathered cheeks contorted showed him that she was confused. As if he were headed to the gallows, the truth began to tumble out from between his crusty, dehydrated lips, whether she’d asked for it or not.

“Fate sent me here for my penance, didn’t it?” She opened her fang-rimmed mouth only to close it again, clearly at a loss for words. On a hunch, he pointed toward the shamanistic talisman around her neck. “You saw my coming, didn’t you? You’re the one who will put me out of my misery.”

Clearing a dry throat, the monster answered him. “Crazy,” the cave-dwelling giantess in the middle of a stagnant wasteland told him without a hint of irony.

The broken man sat up, legs splayed before him, not even attempting to protect himself from her. His lack of fear clearly perplexed her, and she squatted in a resting position. He was almost frustrated by her delaying of his end.

“Maybe I am. That’s what they say now. Maybe that’s why you were sent to kill me.”

She sneered at him as if he were babbling nonsense, her yellow teeth revealed non-threateningly. “No. Not sent,” she replied.

“This is my penance from on high for my crimes. I wandered right to this spot for a reason, don’t you see?” She shook her head, and the ragged man defiantly glared at the deadly creature in irritation. “You don’t know. You don’t know misery.”

“This is misery,” the bog witch replied, sweeping her bony arm across the rotten landscape.

He foolishly shook his head back at her, unafraid of the fact that she could likely tear his throat out in a second. “Nuh uh. I know misery. Misery is throwing everything away.”

“Crazy.”

“Misery is fighting when you know you’ll lose! I tell you, I knew it would all end the way it did. They said I’m crazy too, well maybe I am. But what was I to do?

“I tell you what misery is. Misery is working hard all your life, tilling the baron’s fields and living a sharecropper’s life. Misery is paying bribes on top of taxes because the constable is corrupt. Misery is forcing yourself to smile even when you know you’re screwed. Misery is being forced to choose between yourself and your own flesh and blood.”

At his last comment, something bizarre happened. The sharp, wicked features of the creature’s face contorted, this time into what appeared to be a frown. Ignorant of his surroundings, the man didn’t realize that the inhuman face appeared saddened.

“Misery,” she muttered in agreement.

“Misery proper, it is. That constable forced me to bribe him, saying I hadn’t paid my taxes. For years and years he did it, to me and my neighbors, and we all took it. But when he asked me for my daughter last year...I couldn’t. I could have told her goodbye and saved myself, just kept paying bribes and minding my crops. But I chose her instead...I stabbed the constable with my pitchfork and he died.”

The creature seemed displeased. “Why misery?” she asked contemptuously.

“Because I ended my life. I saved her, but now my life is over. The baron put a warrant on my head, and my wife had to denounce me in public to save herself and our daughter. I left last year and wandered. I ate all my food, and I can’t go to another city because I don’t have traveling papers. I tried to survive, but I don’t know how to forage. Now I just wander, hungry, sick, and alone.

“That’s why I was sent to you. Because maybe my daughter could’ve been a constable’s wife, he’d die of old age in a few years anyway, and my wife wouldn’t be alone. Maybe I just made everything worse.”

The two of them sat in the cold mud for a period thereafter. Neither of them spoke at first, the oblivious man too depressed to even check how close his end was. He didn’t know how much time had passed when the monster began to move.

He could feel the coldness of her gruesome hand reaching for him. “This is only what my actions earned,” he sighed in defeat while waiting to be torn apart.

A leathery hand passed over his head, possibly to crush it as she took ahold of him. Her talons, thin and sharp, dragged lightly over his matted, greying hair as if toying with him, similar to a cat and mouse. He could feel the sharpness of the edges as they were pulled over his scalp, precariously close to slicing open the skin over his skull. The natural weapons danced more than anything, leaving only a tingling sensation as they teased what sort of damage they could possibly have caused.

Spidery fingers slid down the side of his head, almost ghosting his nerve endings without actually digging in to him. One of her talons rested on his ear, eventually creating a bit of warmth as what minimal heat their bodies possessed mixed. The rounded, non-lethal edge of her talon nudged his earlobe as the rest of those thin extremities cupped the back of his head.

Confounded beyond all comprehension, the downfallen farmer glanced up into the monstrous face. The way those black eyes glistened at him, the way the creases in his skin pulled against her face, perplexed him as to what she wanted. Actually, he guessed that she didn’t even know what she wanted.

Asymmetric fangs poked over thin lips which had curled into an insincere smile. The muscles stretched over her face pulled her mouth wide, as if she was trying to look sinister yet failing. Her cheeks bunched up beneath her eyes; couple with the way she squinted at him, her expression actually appeared sad.

Unable to form words, the man wondered why his end couldn’t be swift. His eyes darted around to be sure there wasn’t impending doom or another distraction holding her attention, though her lightless eyes remained on him.

Behind her, he noticed the fresh corpses again. Among them, those which were obviously human or elven were all armed, or at least they had been in life. Their bones had mostly been picked clean. The other corpses, though, were mostly bone and sinew, and it was those which had been smoldering. The odors of sulfur and burnt peat mixed in with the dank fog, implying non-humanoid flesh which had been burnt. Upon closer inspection, the exiled farmer noticed that those bones were rather long, too long to be a humanoid. They were on the smaller side of giants.

He looked back to the creature’s face, as crestfallen and distraught as his own. She continued to squat in front of him, waiting for some sort of reaction. Her apprehension made more sense to him.

“These were your kind,” he murmured to her.

The sadness in her razor sharp smile grew. “Yes,” she replied softer than a monster ought to be able to.

“And those others...they killed your fellows.”

She nodded, confirming that he’d deduced the sequence of events which had led to the devastation surrounding the cave.

He looked into those two black orbs. Despite her predatory nature, despite her foul origins, despite her probable depravity, she still seemed broken. Looking at her was like looking into a broken mirror in more ways than one.

He felt ashamed of his earlier obtuseness. “You also know misery,” he whispered.

Although her face softened, her smile pulled into a frown. “Family...all gone,” she answered solemnly.

From that point on, she didn’t seem like a monster anymore. She was just a miserable wretch like him. He reached forward as well, running a calloused through the hair-like growth atop her head.

Alone in their swamp, the two of them stopped pondering abstract questions of fate or free will. Circumstance drove the fugitive farmer and the trollop. In one of the more bizarre crossing of paths they’d ever know, a match made in hell formed.


	3. Great Grandparents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite romanticization in RPGs, barbarians are kind of dirty and ignorant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Dungeons and Dragons.

The caravan’s protector spoke in a distant manner, as if it wasn’t a tale about his family. “So a match made in hell was formed,” he said from the outside of the wagon circle.

Prulie ignored the odd pairing and thought of the sentimental aspects. “I think it’s sweet,” she said, catching the man off guard.

She could tell by the way his heavy brow lowered to regard her again that he thought she was joking. Theril understood his reaction as well and spoke swiftly. “There’s a beauty in the connection between individuals irrespective of their origins,” the elf added, though the caravan guard seemed skeptical of them both.

“They were both permanent outsiders. Polite society for a real city, like the one’s this caravan will stop at, wouldn’t even let them enter.”

“People are ignorant in groups; that’s a fact everywhere,” Prulie replied, trying to melt away the man’s suspicions. “That doesn’t detract from the joy of true love.”

“Desperation and loneliness are more likely causes.”

“Isn’t that true even in polite society?” she asked rhetorically. “Even the spoiled elite in the cities of Alm are just using money to fill emptiness inside of them.”

Her emphasis on a negative aspect of society resonated with the green guard, and she could almost feel him inching out of his shell. It was almost like a game, and she found the time passed quickly as she tried to figure the withdrawn guard out.

“So those were your grandparents on one side?” she asked after a brief pause.

“Yes.”

“The Chondothan? He was your grandfather?”

“On my father’s side, yes.”

“So your grandfather on your mother’s side was Illuskan?”

“No, my great grandfather. I already said that. He was an Illuskan-speaking Uthgardt scallywag, like all of them. And his story is an example of why I don’t much care for these things.” To emphasize his point, the protector disappeared from the gap in between wagons and shook what sounded like a thick wooden stake driven into the ground. The sound of a still-living Elk tribesman groaning reached the halfling‘s ears, and she cringed at the thought of what lurked beyond their wagon circle.

“And you include your own family in that description?” Theril asked, though the elf immediately recoiled when those black eyes quickly moved back to peer at them through the gap.

“I know; you don’t know,” the guard replied brusquely as if responding to a challenge. “The base nature of tribal nomads living on the backs of others is only known to those with experience. Great grandpa Hew was an example of that.”

——————  
The damp wreckage of destroyed carts littered the former goblinoid base camp in the barren moorland. Dead bodies of a multitude of colors were scattered among the debris from wagons, huts, and ramparts, adding a nasty stench and plenty of flies to the miasma of battle detritus.

Regardless, the phyrric victors rejoiced, switching one group of marauders for another as they supplanted the defeated in the few ramshackle huts and longhouses which remained. Pink skin dominated the central mound of what could vaguely pass for a crude insult to village architecture, and the illiterate, unrefined humans celebrated what amounted to a war of attrition wherein their high birth rate had simply granted them the win via cannon fodder.

In the midst of the celebration were a few survivors among the former rulers of the mud mound. Mostly hobgoblins, the losers who’d been spared were naked and tied to posts alongside the humans’ dogs, having recently exhausted themselves after being enslaved and forced to work on rudimentary repairs to the thatched and wooden structures. Among them were a handful of mercenaries from other species - a few goblins, an ogre who’d lost an arm, and a few unidentifiable creatures - who’d also been spared the humans’ wrath. Having lost interest in light of the post-battle celebration, said humans mostly ignored their captives in favor of slipping in the mud while attempting to dance and drinking all the unlabeled wineskins they’d raided from the ‘village’ longhouse.

One particularly strapping warrior danced in a circle of his fellows, crying and laughing at the same time while pouring some of his beverage into the mud. His friends cheered on his primitive mourning ritual, much to the fright of the defeated hobgoblins.

“You were a good woman Gerdy,” Hew the barbarian bellowed as he finished the rest of his mystery drink. “You gutted half a dozen of these things before you fell.” Pulling out a knife, he waved it in the air while dancing near the enslaved goblinoids. “How many will I take until I can honor your memory?”

As casually as a man hanging his jacket on a coat rack, Hew stabbed one of the defenseless hobgoblins in the arm. The wound was non-fatal, though, and the creature smartly didn’t react and kept its head down when Hew grew more interested in dancing for his friends than exacting more revenge.

“Welp. Guess my bedroll is empty again!” the tribesman said casually, garnering another round of laughter at how easily primates could move in from loss of their bizarrely short lives.

One scrawny tribesman with a big head and a small face clapped his hands low between his legs. “Enough of the riches. Time for the other spoils!” Big-head Smallface guy waved his open palms back and forth in a stupidly jerky motion that only someone totally wasted would understand as a sort of innuendo, and the group of marauders howled.

“I call dibs on the goblin,” one of the animalistic raiders said.

“I call dibs on the other goblin,” slurred another.

“I call dibs on the hog,” said a third, causing a roar of laughter bearing such a force that the vultures picking at the littered corpses flew away scared.

Hew wiped his mouth on his bare, hairy arm and looked over the captives. His eyes glistened with both sorrow and eagerness, and the guy with a big head scrunched up his small face. “Hew, you’re looking at that troll mama way too long!”

The trollop mercenary seemed to understand basic Common and took notice of the dirtied barbarian staring at her. The sort of acrimonious yet resigned anger of a prisoner burned in her frown, and Hew straightened up as if silently communicating.

“Look at her! Long as a tree with teeth like a...like a...lion with really teeth,” the pig-lover oinked. “Nobody could show a monster like that a good time and keep his head.”

On cue, Hew stiffened up and glared at his friend, who subsequently cowered. A smoldering look tha said challenge accepted broke through his inebriated stupor, and he sternly pulled a stolen flask off of his belt and shoved it to his friend’s chest.

“Hold my beer!” Hew said while marching over to the trollop, to the awe of human and hobgoblin alike. The female troll, for her part, merely regarded him with the resentful deference of a war captive.

Hew knelt with one leg out in front of her and seized her by the sizeable wrists. “Hey baby, how you’d like to be free?” he slurred with a hiccup. For a second, she tried to process the Common sentence, and then spent a few more seconds wondering if he was being serious. When Hew removed her shackles, the looked down at the ground, seemingly humiliated by how far she’d sunk but allowing him to lead her away.

To the hoots and hollers of other barbarians, Hew led his newest conquest to a straw and wattle hut he’d claimed for his own. The usual beastly victory party for the savage group of barely-sentient primates was about to get a lot weirder.

—————

One decade later

Hew sat on the wooden chair he’d set up near the window of his hut, staring outside to watch the greased-pig chase competition in the center of the village. Barely moving, he balanced his dried potato crisps on the beer belly that had replaced his abs, using his symbol of sedentary life as a natural cushion.

One of the contestants hit the mud hard, losing his grip on the greased pig. “Come on, ref! That was a foul!” he yelled through the window, watching as the player he hated the most grabbed the big only to lose his grip.

The sound of tiny jabbering reached his ears, and a group of pint-sized green creatures with his blue eyes dashed in front of the window. “NO YELLING IN THE HOUSE!” he yelled at the unidentifiable barefoot creatures sharing his living space. Instead of quieting down, they slowed down, and continued yammering as they ran outside of the hut.

Despite trying to focus on the game, he was still preoccupied by the sounds of his crowded living space. In addition to the sound of the kidnapped domestic cats which were soon to be boiled as well as a bubbling cauldron, arrhythmic footsteps approached which broke his concentration. Already sensing the onset of another laborious task which probably should have been completed yesterday, he tried to sink further into his chair, spilling the dried potato slivers.

Retaining the uneven gait but arching her back instead of hunching forward, his former prize shuffled over to his chair to interrupt him. Bracing her hands on her back and breathing heavily as yet another baby bump poked forward in the front of her moo-moo, she stood next to his chair and just waited for him to check on what exactly she needed. Her weight had more than doubled since the day they’d met, and she’d started to rely on him for any errands which mandated leaving the hut.

“The game will be over in about fifteen minutes,” Hew said without pulling his eyes away from the dogpile of men fighting over a greased pig.

“We’re out of fish guts,” his troll of a wife said, indirectly pushing for him to abandon his pastime without just saying it. “The elk penis stew won’t taste right without it.”

“I know, and you make the best elk penis stew in town. I’ll go to the fishmonger in fifteen minutes.” Hew tried to avoid her gaze, but in his peripheral vision he noticed that the curlers in her writhing hair didn’t move, and he knew she was still staring at him. “As soon as the game is over. I promise.”

Lying with her body language, she let her shoulders slump slightly as if defeated. “Alright,” she sighed in an exaggerated manner while turning away from him. The way she slowed down her pace even more than usual made her displeasure quite apparent, and soon enough Hew found himself sighing.

“Fine, fine, I’ll go now,” he sighed while knocking his crispy potato skins to the dirt floor of the hut. He heard the roar of spectators on his way out, a painful reminder that he’d missed what was probably the defining moment of the greased pig chase. “You’ll be the end of me, woman,” he muttered while pulling his pants up above his loose waistline.


	4. Maternal Grandfather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A habitual offender finally runs out of second chances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Dungeons and Dragons or the associated lore.

Theril stared at the ground, seemingly uncomfortable by the firsthand descriptions of the living habits and hygiene of the marauding tribe that was their protector’s roots. Perhaps it was the boorish way the tribesmen interacted with each other, though Prulie also knew the elf to be a cat lover. That meant that the contents of the meal described could have silenced him as well.

Prulie tried to find something nice to say. “Well, that’s...an interesting account of a very different way of life,” she said awkwardly.

The caravan guard shook his head. “A terrible way of life,” he said. “Marauding tribes living as nomads, or semi-nomads, are just awful in general.”

“See, I thought the Uthgardt were different though. They stand up to orc war bands, commune with nature, and respect trees. I’ve heard it said that they’re noble savages.”

The ostensible praise for a people he descended from sent the green man into a mini-rant. “That doesn’t exist. People say it, but they don’t exist; not with orcs and not with Uthgardt, who are both one and the same. Tribal people are bigoted and ignorant, and nomads are dishonorable and unclean. People think Uthgardt, oh, tall, chiseled people from the great north. Well, they’re usually malnourished, lacking toilet and dental hygiene, cruel without reason, and feel no guilt about stealing from outsiders. Consent isn’t in their vocabulary, and their veneration of trees is primitive superstition which leads them to burn people at the stake for supposedly offending the wishes of trees-“

“Maybe one day they’ll change,” Prulie interjected in an attempt to quell his resentment. “We should always hope for the better for people, so they can stop...” She got the feeling that she was losing him, so she switched to negative reinforcement to placate him. “...stop behaving stupidly.”

Her plan worked. “Yeah, they really need that.”

“So anyway, those were your great-grandparents. That means your family is mixed for three whole generations?”

“Huh?” He paused to remember what they’d been talking about. “Right, I guess. Hew ended up having a lot of kids, one of them being my grandma on my mom’s side. And grandpa was also half-and-half, but he wasn’t born that way.”

Prulie did a double take. “What do you mean?”

The green guard spoke as if it weren’t out of the ordinary. “Grandpa Pat-Pat was born human. He got transformed into something else.”

————

Alembics bubbled and attuned artifacts hummed with profane energy as the reinforced door of the mage’s laboratory swung open. The resident crazy magic user entered his domain with all the pomp of an unemployed royal, sweeping his hands across the rows of arcane instruments as if advertising in a showroom. A few enchanted items floated and leaned toward their master as he passed by, forming a sort of territorial display to the city guards who filed in behind him.

Confused and disheveled, a single prisoner in rags walked with them, rubbing his hands pensively as if afraid of the various glowing items and racks full of preserved specimens. Two apprentices hurried after the group, quickly clearing away stray talismans and urns from what appeared to be a series of porcelain chemical baths at the far end of the lab.

Turning about face, the mustacheo’d mage regarded the group silently with his hands folded in front of him dramatically. The city guards understood and spun the prisoner around.

“Patrick the Patsy, you stand convicted of the following crimes: grand larceny, counterfeiting, jewelry fraud, pie stealing, perjury, armed robbery, molesting a lamp post..” The guard’s eyes narrowed acrimoniously. “...and loitering.” The apprentices shuddered at the last charge, causing the prisoner to shamefully fold in on himself.

The prisoner named Patrick shivered under the scrutiny. “It’s the last time, I promise!”

“No more promises; you agreed to the test-release program,” the guard answered sharply. “Unless, of course, you want to rescind your acceptance. I can throw you right back into the keep’s dungeon.”

“I don’t rescind! I don’t rescind!”

“Very well, then.” The guard turned toward the smug magic user. “Sir?”

Nodding in an overly formal manner, the lab’s owner then spread out his hands as if to present his collection of strange tools. “Welcome to the workspace of the Magnificent Marion!” the crazy wizard said loudly. “You’ve chosen to take part in our test-release program. You’ve been granted a full release without parole...conditional on your cooperation with the experiment, of course.”

Crestfallen, bloodshot eyes sunk down to the floor. “Just tell me what I have to do...I can’t go back to jail again,” Patrick muttered.

“That’s just the attitude I like to see!” Marion the magic user said while pumping a fist. “You’re making a valuable contribution to the world of knowledge and research. Verily, it is possible to do well by doing good. Don’t you think?”

“Well, I guess-“

“That’s the spirit! Come along, now, this shouldn’t take long. For this experiment, we’ll need to secure you inside of the safety tank here.” Marion tapped on an empty glass containment unit against the wall, with a few more beside it hidden under curtains. “Go on, don’t be afraid.”

Too burned out from prison to feel scared or even care anymore, Patrick allowed the guards to shove him into the glass tank. Only when the door had been fastened shut did he take a look at all the arcane artifacts attached to it. “Where do these tubes come from?” he asked while looking at a few openings in the tank.

The resident wizard wasn’t listening. He began to address his apprentices instead. “Today is a marvelous day for progress. Prepare the acid bath!”

“Acid bath?!” Patrick exclaimed.

“Right away, sir,” the first apprentice said while turning a wheel on a smaller tank attached to the big tank with a tube.

“And you - activate the pneumatic pump of elemental air!”

The second apprentice invoked a set of runes on a doohickey connected to one of the glass tanks beneath a curtain. “You got it, master.”

“Why is it making a noise-“

“Behold!” Marion said to the two observing guards, cutting Patrick off. “The first independent variable in this experiment!”

With one tug, Marion removed the curtain from the tank next to Patrick’s garnering gasps from the guards. A peculiar horror revealed itself, if the type one felt disgusted by yet couldn’t stop watching. Suspended from the ceiling of the tank by wires were several green severed body parts of a giant. Gore hang suspended on wires and hangars as a system of internal organs pulsated, all beneath a severed head that opened its eyes as if startled.

Although the guards were shocked into silence, Marion spoke casually and unfazed. “As we can see, ladies and gentlemen, the innards have already begun to expand and grow, whereas the limbs continuously attempt to reattach to a body which isn’t there.”

“Raaaaaa!” yelled the severed green head, causing Patrick to shriek and jump against the thick glass walls of his tank. The motion earned the attention of the functional, bodyless head.

“Rabb rabb rab-babababa!” the head maniacally rasped in Giant. “Rub wub-wub-Baba Baba!”

“What on Toril is that!” Patrick screamed while trying to scratch a hole in the tank.

“It’s a severed head,” Marion replied nonchalantly.

“Chub chub chub grub!”

“Keep it in the tank! Oh mercy!”

Finally regarding the prisoner, Marion shot Patrick a bemused look. “It’s a head and some guts; you and it are both perfectly secure for the transmutation.”

“The what?!” Patrick exclaimed again.

“Grrrr-grub grub wakash mush!”

“Commence troll liquidation!” Marion ordered the apprentices.

“Aye Aye!” they both replied. One of them turned some sort of a crank while the other pulled a lever, causing acid to pour in to the tank from the tubes.

“Aaaaaaarrrrrrggggghhh!” the severed head screeched as acid was poured all over it.

Smoke quickly filled the tank, leaving only the silhouettes of thrashing limbs and gnashing fangs. The crazy wizard must have maintained a truly crazy amount of acid just laying around, because the tank was nearly full of the stuff. Before Patrick even had the time to blink, one of the apprentices pulled another level, activating the enchanted air pump. Liquid could be seen drifting upward as an outline in all the smoke, flowing through the tubes and into Patrick’s tank. When the sound of a fan whirring at high speed echoed in his tank, he began to throw himself against the sides.

“Let me out! Let me out! I rescind!”

“Sorry, the process has already begun. There can be no rescending,” the crazy mage replied before turning to his apprentices. “The acid has been filtered through an alchemical solvent which will transmute the subject’s skin into a semi-permeable membrane for a brief period of time. Watch as the acid which killed the first independent variable will now meld on to the essence of the second independent variable.”

“I am not a variable!” Patrick screamed while trying to plug up the opening of the tube with his hands. His plan was foiled when the solvent poured through and scorched his skin without disintegrating it as had happened with the troll. “Oowwwwww!” he hissed while his fingers started to melt.

“Notice that the subject is still active for the time being. The solvent has only reached knee height, but by the time the meniscus reaches the level of his nether orifices, deeper changes should begin to occur.”

“I can’t feel my legs!” Patrick screamed while thrashing, and he tried to plug the tubes with the lumpy, misshapen stumps which his hands had been reduced to.

The wizard knocked on the glass tank as the solvent began to fill the rest of the volume. “Be sure to drink and inhale as much of it as possible - it will help the process finish more quickly.”

Patrick couldn’t hear the mad mage anymore as the solvent had begun to fill his ears. “It’s inside my eyes!” was the last thing the human screamed before passing into a quasi-coma.

His pain stopped when the world turned black, and he felt himself drifting in an ocean of steam and liquid. Although he didn’t know which way was up or where his ass was from his head, he could feel all of his nerve ends firing and stretching. As the darkness dragged on, his fear receded, mainly due to the fact that his mind was so hazy.

Even though he was too drowsy to open his eyes, his body and mind stirred enough for him to feel the effects of gravity again when he hit the bottom of a glass tank. Muffled sounds reached his slumbering brain as he vaguely felt himself being carried out by the guards.

“Success!” came the distant voice of the crazed magician, sounding as if the man was speaking through a thick sheet of cloth. “The second subject has retained his identity while absorbing partial qualities from the first...its a true hybrid!”

The mage’s voice suddenly dropped in tone. “We need to report the results. Oh, and, uh...please remove this one; we don’t need a physical specimen for the report to the academy.”

“What should we do with it, sir?” asked one of the guards from what sounded like a hundred miles away.

The magic using madman was slow to answer. “Oh, I don’t know...I hear the circus is in town. Just drop it by the tent for the freak show with its confiscated personal belongings from the jail. It’s not our responsibility anymore.”


	5. Maternal grandmother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Circus stick together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Dungeons and Dragons or the associated lore.

“That really sounds awful,” Prulie said.

From the space between wagons, she could see him shaking his head again. “Well, grandpa Pat-Pat wasn’t an upstanding citizen himself. He did rob a bank, after all. And accepting the experiment earned him a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Theril was, again, a bit bothered. “You don’t feel sad for your grandfather and what he went through?” the elf asked, much more boldly than the halfling would have.

The caravan guard shrugged. “If it hadn’t happened, then he wouldn’t have been my grandpa. I probably wouldn’t have been born. Wondering how things would have turned out doesn’t really do any good.”

“Well...I suppose that makes sense.”

“So he wasn’t human anymore? After that, I mean?” Prulie asked.

“He was half-human. Technically, I’m a ‘half-human’ too, just like some people are half-elf or half-orc, but also half something else.”

“Oh, absolutely! I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I’m just thinking, then, how exactly the generations match up, with your Illuskan side and all.”

“Grandpa was Illuskan too, just not Uthgardt. The language is the same, though. That’s actually how he met grandma Neely, great-grandpa Hew’s daughter.” He stopped in mid-sentence, hardening his expression for a moment.

As fierce as he looked, Prulie felt that his ire wasn’t directed at her. At the same time, Theril put his arm around her. There was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere, and she could feel her scalp tinglingnas if her hairs were trying to stand on end.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered in concern.

Theril didn’t answer, instead looking up to the caravan guard. “Your weapons are still in the wagon where you slept,” the elf whispered urgently, and Prulie worriedly hugged her blanket around herself.

In contrast, the green guard looked irritated but not worried. “No problem. Could I borrow your shoe?”

“What?” Theril whispered back.

“Your shoe. I just need one of them. Pulling out my weapons will cause too much noise.”

“What on Toril will you do with a shoe?”

“What’s happening?” Prulie asked, though the guard didn’t answer.

A single green claw reached in between the wagons. Rough and leathery like a pencil’s eraser, the guard’s skin was slightly bumpy but absolutely hairless. His arm was too thick to squeeze all the way through the gap, but it was long enough such that the three fingers and thumb stretched close to Theril’s hand.

Still bearing a sense of urgency, Theril took one of his shoes off and thrust it into the clammy palm. “Could you at least use a frying pan...whatever, just hurry!”

The arm disappeared back through the gap again. “Don’t worry, nobody will even be woken up,” came the unperturbed voice of their protector.

Prulie looked up at Theril. She could see that he didn’t want to say what was happening, and she was starting to get the feeling that she’d rather not know. “Maybe you should cover your ears,” he whispered.

“I’ll take your word for it.” The halfling promptly covered her ears and leaned in to her friend, trying to shut out what sounds may come. Sounds did come, though her ears muffled most of them. She could faintly make out what sounded like a smothered cat, or one growling with its mouth closed, as well as the sound of turkey being pounded with a mallet. Leaves rustled more than usual for a few seconds, and then there was silence.

After a few minutes, she looked up again. “Seriously, tell me what that was all about.”

Wary but noticeably calmer, the elf tried to peek in between different pairs of wagons. “A big cat. I don’t know which type lives near this trail...a mountain lion? A leopard?”

Prulie’s heart accelerated for half a second. “A what? Here? Can’t they jump straight over a wagon?”

“Not anymore,” came the voice of the caravan guard.

They both turned to see his shadow pass over the familiar gap where he’d been standing to chat with them. A large body hit the dirt, and Prulie smelled blood again. She’d never imagined just how dangerous trade routes could be at night.

When the guard peered in through the gap, she could make out the glistening of red cat blood on his hand as well as nasty looking wounds on his forearm and shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I owe you new shoes,” he said in a sincere voice, totally nonchalant despite the painful looking gashes opened on his rubbery skin.

“I needed a new pair anyway,” Theril replied dryly.

Prulie took a deep breath and shook her head. “I don’t think I was ready for this when I signed up,” she half-sighed, half-laughed.

Casually slurping the animal blood from his hands, the green guard shrugged again. “Almost all caravans have guards for situations like this; this stuff is normal. It’s not that dangerous for those of you within the circle as long as somebody is posted outside.” Once he’d finished making Theril gag and Prulie chuckle in disbelief, he spoke again. “Right, about my grandma. This one is kind of cute.”

————

It was another usual day at the circus, and Neely was cleaning up her stall for the night. She and the other more outlandish carnival folk all had to clean up their own space at the end of the day; it was the responsibility that came with the right to keep her stall under one of the tents and away from the hustle and bustle of revelers outside.

Once she’d locked away all of her fake talismans and imitation reagents, she stuffed the chest of her belongings beneath the booth. Her cauldron, which had been filled with simple chicken soup with stringy spinach to look like slime, would be taken by the laborers for supper. That was one part of cleanup which thankfully wasn’t her responsibility.

Tucking her inauthentic pointy hat under her arm, she made to leave the gallery of oddities and retire to her bunk. They were almost done with their time in that city, and she knew she ought to catch up on her sleep, yet she didn’t feel too tired. Strolling slowly among the other stalls, she passed a side tent connected to the gallery by a tarp. From there, she heard an unfamiliar voice humming vaguely familiar words.

As she came to a stop, she recognized it as a lullaby. Except rather than the trade language, this was a quite peculiar dialect, one she hadn’t heard in a long time. Curious, she approached the side tent, only for the humming to stop. Much like a cricket who’d noticed its observer, the hidden person appeared to be waiting for her to pass.

“Hello?” Neely asked, to no answer at first. She tried again. “The carnival has closed now, unfortunately. We open around noon.”

Her trick paid off. “I work here,” came the raspy voice of a person sitting behind a booth marked ‘freak show.’

Curious and not yet ready to sleep, she began to speak in the same manner she’d heard. “Well, pardon my mistake,” she said in Illuskan. “I didn’t know anybody else was here at this hour. Haven’t you checked out with the stage manager?”

Startled by her code switching, the raspy-voiced man hesitated. “We’ve already closed up. I’m just...fixing some thing,” he answered in Common.

There was something different about the speaker - not so much in his voice as in his manner of speaking. He spoke Common like a human who’d learned it as a second language, but she felt as if there was something non-humanoid hiding in the place he should have been in. A few other employees at the carnival had told her about certain stars in the sideshow, and she began to suspect that she knew of the person she was speaking to.

She prodded him a little more. “I can help you if doing so will let us close everything up sooner,” she said, again in Illuskan.

“Well, I...” he started in her language before switching back. “No, it’s fine.”

After a boring weekend, meeting one of the sideshow performers would be the most interesting moment for her in a while, so she persisted. “Come now, I couldn’t allow a colleague to handle everything alone so late after closing. Don’t circus folk stick together?”

“What? But...really, I just finished up now.” He fidgeted, and she noticed a green elbow poking out from behind the booth, confirming what her coworkers had told her. “I’ll be heading out in a minute.”

“Perhaps I can return to the bunks with you, then. It’s better not to go alone in strange cities.”

“But the bunks are only ten yards away...” He stopped himself upon realizing that he’d started to speak Illuskan too, causing her to smile victoriously. “I...okay,” he said in exasperation, “it’s late.”

When he stepped out from behind the booth, her eyes widened even more than they were naturally. Her friends hadn’t been joking: for the first time in her life, she was standing in front of another person like her yet not related to her. He seemed as surprised as she was, and beneath the hood he wore, she saw the utter shock in the big red orbs that lay at the back of his deep eye holes.

The two of them just stared at each other for a few moments, unsure of what to say. She surmised that he hasn’t met another person quite like himself, either. Given that she was at least quasi-aware of him previously, she broke her stupor and silence first.

“I’m Neely,” she said as casually as possible while extending her hand. He flinched but then accepted the handshake.

As normal as she behaved, he couldn’t seem to get over the initial shock. “You’re...wearing a costume?” he asked in disbelief.

Trying to play off his discomfort, she twirled her pointy hat around. “Not anymore; I only dress like a witch during work. It’s part of the illusion for the customers, you know?” When he couldn’t formulate a response, she nodded for him to follow. “Shall we go, mister?”

Still hesitant, he slowly lurched forward as if physically uncomfortable in his own skin. “Uh...Patrick,” he replied while walking.

Neely folded her hands in front of her and tried to exude a sense of calm despite finding his hesitance quaint. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Patrick. We seem to have quite a big staff here at the circus, don’t we?”

The man seemed confused and cautious, as if he wasn’t entirely sure if she was being sincere or not. “I guess so,” he answered while pulling his hood more securely around himself.

She only had a few moments before they separated into their respective tents. “So...I’m with the gallery. I pretend to be a witch, and say weird things about curses and the end of the world. It’s a lot of fun. What do you do?”

He shook his head. “I work in the freak show,” he mumbled.

“Oh? So what’s that like?”

“Bad.”

“Come now, other members of the sideshow have a lot of fun, too.”

“Because they’re all fake. It’s different when you’re an actual freak.”

“You don’t look freaky to me,” she replied. “What do you actually do?”

“I’m the...” He sighed. “I’m the man with the iron gut. I eat things normal people find awful.”

She knew enough about her own background to guess about his. “I’m sure that, to your palate, it all tastes fine. That’s how you can do what you do, and entertain people, right?”

He didn’t answer until they’d almost reached the bunks for carnival workers. He seemed like he was stubborn, trying to convince himself that his job was awful, but she had a feeling that her optimism was pushing him to open up whether he liked it or not.

“I guess.”

They stopped outside the bunks. “Well, this is me,” she said while turning to face him. He didn’t seem to like direct eye contact. “It was very nice to meet you, mister Patrick. I didn’t know there were other people like me with us.”

“Like you?” he asked, totally perplexed.

“Yeah. My dad is where I get my Illuskan from. My mom gave me my complexion.” She showed him her hands, waggling her fingers and almost getting him to laugh. “You’re the first person I’ve met who’s like me.”

For a second, he almost smiled, though he looked down at his own hands in dismay. “I never knew there was anybody else like this,” he mumbled, and she felt he might turn negative again.

“It’s nice to be mixed; I like to see the world from two different perspectives.” He was about to shake his head, but her cheery optimism pushed her to spread the joy. “It was nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you again tomorrow?”

Stupefied, he finally made eye contact with her. He seemed like a nice guy who’d just buried himself under a defensive layer. “You too,” he murmured, awestruck. She grinned to herself when he watched her until she disappeared into the bunks.


	6. Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few generations, a family line could eventually work out its hang ups and identity issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Dungeons and Dragons.

“Aww, that was cute!” Prulie cooed.

The green guard seemed much more relaxed by that point, and though he didn’t smile, he did hum approvingly. “Grandma changed grandpa, in a way. She didn’t even know he’d been a criminal until they got old - he mostly stayed out of trouble once they met. She had a way of bringing out the best in people, even an awful bastard like grandpa.”

The sound of a knife striking bones scraped rhythmically as he spoke. As the caravan’s cook, Prulie actually wasn’t disgusted by the notion of animal skinning, however odd she found his culinary taste to be. Theril, however, winced at the sounds of sinew snapping and became withdrawn. Despite the onset of sleepiness, the halfling would have to lead the conversation.

“It seems like that was the first generation of your family to achieve some sort of normalcy,” she said while the green man butchered the predator he’d defended them from.

Their guard grunted and began pulling the skin off of the carcass. “Not entirely. On my dad’s side, the Chondothan side, they were still the match made in hell. Grandma on my mom’s side was only a pretend witch; grandma on my dad’s side was an actual witch.” He paused momentarily to set unseen objects and organs aside. “My parents were the first generation who both were normal.”

“What’s normal, anyway? Can that really be defined?” Prulie asked.

He snorted in disapproval. “Sure it can. Society defines it. Their definition becomes pretty clear when bigoted peasants run you out of town for looking different.”

“I...I've never been kicked out of anywhere before. But still, why let the ignorant decide your standards for you?”

“It’s easy to say that when you’re a part of society. It’s not if you’re the one being kicked out.”

Prulie couldn’t accept his worldview at all, and she suspected that even some of the family members he’d described wouldn’t either, based on what he’d told her. “So your parents, the generation after that. Did they feel the same way?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, but they don’t travel as much as I do. They think like you do, but they haven’t seen as much as me.”

She frowned but lacked the energy to debate the nature of the world with him. “Your parents sound like they’re well-adjusted in society, though.”

“Yeah, I suppose. They live in a hamlet near Everlund where people are used to the corner of town full of half-breeds. They lived a lot like full-humans do, more so than like the other half of my roots.”

————

Merrilynn tried not to think as she finished preparing the tea in the stranger’s disorganized, cramped kitchen. As long as she just stared at what was in front of her, and didn’t contemplate anything beyond what was in her hands, she’d be able to relax. Unfortunately for her, reminding herself of that was also thinking, and so she remained on edge even while carrying the wooden tray of clay cups to the sitting room of his mud brick house.

Out in the room were her parents and their host. The fact that her mother had stopped wearing her costume, and that her father had actually worn a belt, only added to the pressure she felt being there. She pretended to be fascinated by the straw mat on the floor while they spoke.

“So you say that the restaurant around the corner here is run by one of the half-orcs?” her mother asked their host.

He made a sort of motion, but Merrilynn couldn’t see it. “Right around the corner here; the atmosphere is a little more comfortable for people like us. If you order soon, they could prepare a whole meal for us within the hour.” To her chagrin, he took notice of her as she laid the tray down on his rickety coffee table. “Thank you,” he told her politely.

She nodded and sat next to her father, though Patrick leaned away as if to rise. “Well, I’m sure the tea will still be hot. Neely and I will go and request food for all of us.”

Her parents both rose to shake the man’s hand, making Merrilynn feel invisible but not in the way she’d wanted. “Do you remember the direction?” he asked her parents.

Walking to the door without speaking to her, they both hurriedly took their temporary leave. “It’s quite alright, we can find it. Hopefully we’ll be back with enough food soon enough,” her mother said. Neely looked back one last time to wave to Merrilynn joyfully, oblivious to the fact that her daughter didn’t particularly enjoy being there.

Merrilynn continued staring at the mat while he watched her parents leave. She’d never been in a situation where she’d wanted to disappear before, given the work her family was involved in. She didn’t know how to act short of being rude to their host.

She listened to his footsteps as he returned and sat across from her, tapping the teacups to test the heat. The way he went about everything so slowly should have been pleasant, but she instead found herself wishing he would just get to the point.

“So, your mother told me you speak Giant too, though I don’t think Pat does,” he said to her while organizing the cups on the tray.

She didn’t answer - not to be intentionally rude so much as she didn’t know what to say. Even the simple question, in her mind, presented some sort of multi-layered meaning she couldn’t decipher. When she couldn’t find an answer, he continued. “Do you understand what I’m saying if I talk like this?” he asked in the language.

Merrilynn nodded while staring at his mat. “Yes, it’s clear.”

He hummed in response. “It’s a blessing to speak more than one language. My parents’ relationship was in Common, so I learned that first. My mom taught me her language, too, but dad passed away before I could learn Chondothan.” She froze, feeling as if she were being interrogated when he mentioned relationships. “Your parents also speak Illuskan, right?”

“Yes.” She felt rude being so curt, and forced herself to give a little more, though she felt exposed doing so. “I speak it better than I do Giant.”

She could feel him finally turn his head to look at her, like she’d left a door open and somehow expected him not to peek inside. “That’s interesting. Does the carnival travel through Illuskan-speaking regions?” he asked innocently.

‘What kind of game is this,’ she thought to herself.

“Not really, I think. It doesn’t travel much. We stay around the Silver Marches. Most everybody speaks Common.”

“Mhm. See, I would have guessed that you use the language of customers at the carnival.”

“I don’t work at the carnival,” she said, “my parents do. I just help clean up and cook.” A wild idea climbed into her head. It could possibly force her to talk more, but it could also take the focus off of her. “What do you do?”

Despite her appeal to his ego, he seemed fairly focused on her. “Your story is more interesting than mine. I grew up in the woods, served as a mercenary to pay off this house, and now I’m a garbage collector. Working in a place as colorful as a circus must provide far better stories.”

His job made her frown. “I guess garbage needs to be collected,” she said noncommittally.

“It pays well because it’s a bit of a luxury in a village like this. Plus, our background grants us immunity from a lot of diseases which would otherwise make the job hazardous, so it makes sense for me to do it rather than a full-human.” Before she could fill the time with more inane banter, he deflected her questions. “I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of wild things growing up in the circus. Perhaps it seems mundane to you, but I bet you could write a book if you wanted.”

She felt heat rising in her face as she struggled to find out his angle, all while talking to avoid excessive silence. “Well, I don’t know. It’s nothing, really. I don’t work like my parents do.” She shrugged. “Maybe I’ll start working and have more to tell you, but I don’t.”

“I was under the impression that the circus is currently scaling back.”

Her response was swift, blunt, and sadly unfiltered. “I don’t want to talk about that!” she snapped. Immediately, she regretted her outburst at her host. “Sorry, I didn’t meant to...”

She paused when she heard him laughing. “Boundaries are healthy. It’s okay to keep certain matters private.”

Brushing her bangs back with shaky hands, she felt nervous due to her own reaction. “What’s this all about?” she asked, unable to bear the suspense. The way he raised his eyebrow at her amusedly frustrated her even more.

“I’m just making conversation. Your mom told me that the circus has hit hard times here. That it might leave the Northwest entirely for better markets, and that there still might not be work.”

“They’re trying to get rid of me. They’d rather dump me with a garbage man than fight the owners to get me a job.” Realizing again that she’d said something she regretted, she looked up at him shamefully only to find that he thought it was funny. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”

“Only about your parents,” he chuckled. “I’m sure that my lifestyle seems quaint for a person with a life as colorful as yours. That’s just a fact. But you should give your parents the benefit of the doubt.”

Once her frustration had been revealed, not even her shyness could hold it back any longer. “They can fight for me,” she huffed. “It’s so unfair.”

“Do you feel your parents are unfair, or the circus?”

“I don’t know...both. No, well...the circus.” She paused and looked up to find him nodding his head as if he were actually listening to what she was saying, and her discomfort returned. “It just is.”

“You mean the general situation, right?”

She folded her arms and tried to find something to look at among his homemade shelves full of gazettes and almanacs. “Sure,” she replied bluntly.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to make him feel uncomfortable. It was as if he was just...content with life. It was maddening.

“I can’t pretend to know what it feels like. From what I’ve understood, your whole life has been spent with one community, and now that community is moving away. There’s no way to spin that to make it seem like a better deal. But I’d posit this to you: nepotism can only go so far. Even if the circus management would like to find a job for the children of every performer, finances may not allow them to do so. They wouldn’t be traveling again if business were good.”

Frowning, she found herself unable to argue with the point he’d made. She’d actually already suspected what he was suggesting herself. “So their choice is to either help me find work, or marry me off?” she asked, no longer able to hide her bitterness.

For an annoyingly long time, he just stayed silent and sounded as if he were in deep thought. She almost wanted to scream, to just overturn the teacups and demand to know what exactly he and her parents had been planning behind her back. Once again, his calmness caught her off guard.

“I’m not asking you to marry me, Merrilynn.”

He spoke so casually, as if it were an obvious matter of fact, that the comment almost didn’t register at first. She slowly looked up to find the same unassuming smile.

“You’re not?” she asked cautiously.

He shook his head. “No. I’m just asking you to have tea with me.” He then leaned forward and started to stir the herbs in the tea, acting as if he were more interested in the drinks.

She couldn’t hold back any longer. “What kind of game are you playing?!” she shouted, more from anxiety than anger. “Why are you laughing?”

His laughter was so warm that she almost yelled again, and the fact that he didn’t seem like he’d even mind that made her want to yell even more.

“Not everybody is like the sharks you might deal with in back alleys or the sideshow of the circus,” he said softly while stirring her tea for her. “Especially here in small towns, you’ll find that a good deal of us don’t have ulterior motives.”

“So you just say things that you actually think and don’t hide your feelings from strangers!?” she shouted incredulously.

“Yes.”

“What the...what kind of a mind game is this? Don’t laugh!”

“My apologies. It’s just been a very long time since I’ve visited a big city; I suppose that our ways of seeing the world are quite different.” When her suspicious glare failed to penetrate his relaxed demeanor, she found herself at a loss for words, and he continued. “Your parents may believe that, since they’re unable to take care of you, find work for you, or send you to a formal school, in their view, helping you settle down might be the best way to secure your future. They could be wrong in thinking that, but given their dire financial straits, they’re the polar opposite of malicious.”

“But I’m not ready to get married.”

“That’s alright. Are you ready for your tea, at least?”

“What’s your angle?”

He chuckled with his mouth closed and handed her the teacup without being asked. “There’s no secret to it. There are very few people who have the same racial mix as you and I; finding someone of a similar background is quite difficult. Your parents learned of me through one of the half-orcs here who’d visited the carnival and then they told me. So I figured, what’s the harm in meeting new people? There’s no shortage of tea.”

Rubbing her eyes, she tried to take it all in and just wondered how much of what she’d guessed about him has been correct or incorrect. He just seemed too unassuming, too careless, too...happy?

That last possibility caused her to wonder exactly how pessimistic she’d become about her situation. Or people in general. Or the world.

“If I don’t marry you, then my parents will shame me for screwing up this supposedly great deal they’re trying to work out for me.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I can always make up a story to cover you in case they push you to anything you don’t want. Maybe claim I got cold feet, or pick at silly things about you. They’d blame me instead.”

Subconsciously folding her arms, she found herself looking at him again, unable to believe him. “Why would you do that? Why would anybody do that for a person they don’t really know?”

This time, he seemed confused, though humorously so. “Why wouldn’t I? Or anybody else? You’re a living soul, and I’d lose nothing by angering your parents. It’s nice to meet new people, but I can always meet more. Helping you avoid blame costs me nothing.”

No longer able to justify denying him the benefit of the doubt, even though she still wanted to, she silently admitted defeat. “Thank you,” she said demurely.

Leaning forward with one of the cups, he flashed the most confoundingly simple, uncomplicated smile a member of the male species had ever shown her. “You don’t need to thank me; just drink tea with me,” he said while handing her the cup.

After a few moments of hesitation, she accepted it and began to sip slowly. He leaned back in his chair and began to drink as well, tasting and then nursing the drink as if it were the grandest nectar he’d ever had. He acted as if he...just...really enjoyed the tea. As if his mind weren’t filled with the same thoughts about the urban economy, power relations in the world, the state of magic and its users, and all the other concerns of Toril that plagued her every night. He acted as if he were really satisfied with his life. And what perplexed her the most, beyond belief, was that it wasn’t an act. He was a man, yet also not a cheat, liar, or secretly complicated fraud.

Unable to hold back any longer, Merrilynn finally burst; but instead of shouting, it was laughter. The tea jumped up and down her throat, into her sinuses and blew out of her nose like a child. She leaned forward and let it fall into her dress as she coughed and laughed like a madwoman.

He seemed like he hadn’t been so amused in a long while. “What’s so funny?” he asked while handing her a handkerchief.

She wiped her face and waited for the laughing fit to stop before trying to drink again. “Nothing,” she replied.


	7. Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of a slightly awkward though surprisingly mundane family story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Dungeons and Dragons.

“That’s a surprisingly happy ending,” Prulie said.

Theril poked at her through her blanket. “What sort of ending were you expecting?”

“Nothing, I didn’t really have an expectation. It’s just very different from other stories told her at the camp...people usually have tragedy or hardship that sets them off adventuring.”

She could see the green guard shrug while he stood behind the wagons. “It’s boring, really. That’s why I don’t usually tell it.” He shifted where he stood as if he had something to say but didn’t know how to say it. “Thanks for listening, I guess.”

“Thanks for telling; now I know the background of everybody in the caravan...until we change staff at the next town.” Prulie chuckled and then tried to yawn halfway through, but it wouldn’t come out. “It’s nice to hear a relatively drama-free story. Except for maybe your grandpa who was transmogrified.”

“He sort of deserved it at the time,” the halfbred guard said nonchalantly. “It humbled him anyway. And it’s why I’m here.”

Theril stiffened again, and Prulie could tell that the elf was still reacting poorly to hear a person make negative comments about their own family. Deftly changing the subject, the stood up and pulled her blanket around herself.

“Well, it’s way past my bedtime. I hope the two of you won’t mind if I turn in for the night.”

Theril smiled and ushered her back toward the rest of the caravan workers. “You’ll barely get any sleep before sunrise. We understand.” The urge to yawn finally struck her, and she caused Theril to yawn as well (though, oddly, not the green man outside the wagon circle). “Now you’re making me do it,” Theril laughed.

“I’m out. Good night, Theril.” She turned to look in between two of the wagons. One of the guard’s cavernous eyes peered back at her, but she didn’t feel startled by him anymore. “Good night, Groc,” she said to the green man.

He looked like he was nodding. “Yes, you too,” was all he said as she took her leave. He wasn’t very personable, but at least she finally felt comfortable about the person protecting them from robbers and wild animals.

**Author's Note:**

> Dungeons and Dragons, Forgotten Realms, and all related games, locations, and lore are the property of Wizards of the Coast and Hasbro.


End file.
